


throwing bottles at god

by abo_trash



Category: Heathers: The Musical - Murphy & O'Keefe
Genre: F/F, F/M, On-Again/Off-Again Relationship, Underage Drinking, Vandalism, Writing Exercise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 14:30:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10969158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abo_trash/pseuds/abo_trash
Summary: “I want to get drunk. Get me drunk.” You snort, unable to help yourself, but her face doesn’t change. She’s got her mind made up, it seems, but you’re still going to try talking your way out of it.“No fucking way in hell. I’m not getting you drunk just because you and Red Dawn are having a spat. You’ll just wake up and fix things with him tomorrow and regret ever coming over here.”Not like you’re speaking from experience or anything. Not like she’s come over to your house before, and cried on your shoulder until she couldn’t anymore. Not like you’ve got her drunk before because she’s asked and you woke up naked and alone the next morning while they made up.





	throwing bottles at god

“I hate him!” she screams through her tears, both hands balled up into fists and scrubbing her eyes violently, as if that pain will replace the pain that’s taken over where her heart used to be.

“No you don’t,” you sigh, and she nods hard, her entire body shaking with repressed sobs that she’s trying hard not to let out, as if that’s going to prove your point. The fact that she’s crying already does so, but you won’t say that to her.

“Yes I do! I hate him! He’s… He’s a total dick!” she sobs, scrubbing her eyes harder, and you’re almost scared she’s going to hurt herself, but you tell yourself you grab her wrists and move them away because you’re sick of seeing her smear make-up all over her face.

“No, Veronica. You don’t. You’re just upset that he broke up with you. We both know you don’t hate him.” The sickening sweetness in your voice, all soft and quiet as you try to calm her down, makes your stomach turn, but she glares at you all the same, her eyes bloodshot from crying the past thirty minutes.

“You don’t know that, Heather,” she hisses, the same way she’s been hissing everything at you since you finally got her to tell you that Jason Dean, that mother fucker, broke her heart. Again. “I hate him and I hate you and I hate everyone.”

“No you don’t. Stop saying that,” you insist, and her brows furrow in barely repressed anger. It’s been the same way since she showed up at your door thirty minutes ago, with unshed tears in her eyes and her shoulders shaking with the effort of holding it all back.

“No. I hate him.” She’s very insistent on this, and you know it’s not true, but she doesn’t want to listen to you. She yanks her wrists free from your grip and crosses her arms over her chest, glaring at your feet. “And I hate you.”

“Whatever.” You know she’s just upset, and you don’t care to keep playing her games. She falls silent and you do too, because you don’t care to try talking right now, not with how she’s acting.

At least ten minutes pass as she slumps against you, leaning on you instead of the end of the couch, but you don’t complain, because despite yourself, you enjoy the contact, and you try to ignore how it makes your heart speed up.

Suddenly though, she rounds on you. She jerks up right and turns to face you, a new determination set in her features, and honestly, it makes you want to kiss her. Instead, you refrain, and raise a brow in question.

“I want to get drunk. Get me drunk.” You snort, unable to help yourself, but her face doesn’t change. She’s got her mind made up, it seems, but you’re still going to try talking your way out of it.

“No fucking way in hell. I’m not getting you drunk just because you and Red Dawn are having a spat. You’ll just wake up and fix things with him tomorrow and regret ever coming over here.”

Not like you’re speaking from experience or anything. Not like she’s come over to your house before, and cried on your shoulder until she couldn’t anymore. Not like you’ve got her drunk before because she’s asked and you woke up naked and alone the next morning while they made up.

“Heather, I swear, either you get me drunk, or I’ll… I’ll go find a college party and get drunk there. Get me drunk,” she hisses, and you scowl. You know how college boys are and you don’t want her around that. She’s a horny drunk and they’ll take advantage of that.

“Fucking… Fine. I hate you, but fine. I’ll get you fucking drunk,” you hiss in return, and she beams.

And that’s how, at nearly three am, you end up on his lawn with bottles scattered at your feet and in your car. Half empty beer bottles in hand, she points to his window, fresh tears still on her cheeks, and you glare at it despite knowing everything will be fine between them tomorrow morning.

“That’s his room,” she says, her words slurring out in a jumbled mess, and you don’t dare tell her you know because you’ve done this before. Not that she would remember if you did, but whatever. “That fucker. Who does… Who does he think he is? Breaking my heart? Fuck him!”

“Yeah, fuck him,” you say, and try to ignore how your own words slur and the world kind of tilts. You’re an angry drunk, and seeing Veronica crying earlier because of him, again, already fried a few too many nerves to restrain you.

“Fuck you, Jason Dean! Your dick is small!” she yells, and throws her bottle at the window. It shatters against the wall in a cascade of brown glass and a noise loud enough to wake the neighbourhood.

You barely register what she’s done as she’s picking up another off the ground. She chucks it too, and well, why the fuck not? You drain yours and throw it, hard, and unlike her piss poor attempts, yours actually hits the window. It shatters in a brilliant stream of speckled glass, and she hoots and hollers.

“What the fuck was that!” The new voice, a neighbour maybe or maybe his dad, startles you back to reality. Fuck, you’re both gonna get in major trouble for this. Better motor.

You grab her hand as she grabs another bottle and chucks it, hard, and it shatters against the side of the house. You don’t see it though, because you’re running, running to your car, and stumbling over your own feet.

She’s laughing as she falls into the passenger’s seat, that contagious laugh of hers, and you laugh too, even as you start your car up. You start driving without a second thought, adrenaline pumping through your veins enough that you’re not worried about what you just did, and you both laugh.

For a few minutes, anyways. Then she falls silent and scrubs both hands against her eyes again. You’re scared she’s maybe crying again when she finally puts her hands down and sighs.

“I didn’t mean that. His dick isn’t small. It’s actually pretty nice,” she sighs, and your nose wrinkles. You were going to ignore her comment, but she’s apparently not letting it go.

“I didn’t need to hear that,” you say, and she shrugs. She slumps against your car door and grabs a beer bottle from your cupholder. You don’t even look at her as she downs what’s in it, and honestly, you don’t even care if that was yours or hers.

It doesn’t matter. Come tomorrow morning, Veronica will leave your house with new bruises from tonight, while you’re still asleep. She’ll go to his house and they’ll make up. She’ll pretend tonight never happened and that it won’t happen again.

But it will. It always does. You know it, she knows it, and you have to wonder if he does too. That doesn’t make your heart hurt any less though, and doesn’t make you wish you could date her any less.


End file.
